An overpowering urge for Arby's and heartbreak at the pet store

It's been a long week, one in which fatigue has ruled with an iron fist, and perhaps because of that, I've been effective in just focusing on work and just getting through the daily activities one needs to get through... preventing me from thinking too much about the reason for the fatigue. A few weeks ago, I was in Tucson attending a conference when I got a phone call from my doctor calmly explaining to me that there was nothing to really worry about but the ultrasound of my thyroid (the ultrasound that was meant to only be a baseline against an autoimmune disorder I was diagnosed with nearly two years ago) came back with unexpected results. Chances are it is nothing, but like so much in our ability to obtain answers it requires a process of elimination; to that end, the testing of the week required me to be off the medication that helps in controlling the symptoms and the progression of the disease. And so, among other things, the fatigue.

So what has this to do with Arby's? During the week preceding today the fatigue and associated pain wiped out almost any appetite I may have had for anything. Just after noon today though, I had a sudden and overwhelming desire for an Arby's roast beef sandwich. Given that I rarely eat red meat and have not eaten at an Arby's in years, it was surprising. It was not as surprising as the zest for which I actually dove into the victuals (or the fact that it did not render me ill). It was a hopeful sign that things are looking up.

It was after work that I decided I needed to stop at Kohl's, my hopefulness stretching to a three week quest for a replacement of my black shoe/boots... and ba-zinga! I found a pair--and on sale. In the same plaza is a pet store I like to frequent--it's locally owned and supports a local cat rescue. There are always 2-3 kittens in the store from the rescue for adoption. I stopped in for some treats for the boys and saw the tiniest three kittens I've seen in some time. Two gray and one black... still so little their fur still was a little scraggly from the growing in process. They stood and stared at me, stopping their vicious attack of yarn mousies nearly half their size. I reached in to pet one of them and s/he purred so incredibly loud it was heartbreaking to leave.

As I write I'm surrounded by purring and snoring sounds from my own kitties. They've been clingy the last few weeks, wanting to sit on my lap, share my pillow or have a paw on my arm all week. Jake has unburied me in the morning from my hair, but a little later than he might normally "ask" me to get up for their breakfast. They know. And life is good.

What to do with my Shock gear?

It is official. The Detroit Shock have been sold to Tulsa. That's Oklahoma; where I am fairly certain womens basketball goes to die. It still remains to be seen, of course. In the meantime, I'm sad--it's the end of an era filled with a lot of great memories... inaugural season to their turn at last in the league to their rebound to a first championship where I dragged myself (just a month after major surgery) and SK to nearly every game. I've even been hoping Philadelphia would get a womens team so I could more readily see my Detroit play again. But it isn't to be.

Change can be good, though it is hard to see that in my haze of disappointment. It isn't just about the basketball--this is a big hit to a state that's already fairly depressed. It's also a hit to girls growing up in Michigan looking for positive role models and fighting for equal respect in their sport when the only major womens sports team has just been shipped out of town despite unquestioned success in the league.

Tall Tales and Cat Tails: Stories I’ve told Vinnie

This is a bit of a long post; but I've been thinking about the writing process a lot lately in conjunction with off-the-wall things I make up to say aloud--to my cats--and how it actually informs and helps develop my writing. My point here is not to get myself institutionalized, but rather a creative process... so I present to you "Tall Tales and Cat Tails: Stories I’ve told Vinnie"

Sometime early evening after a particularly bad series of first dates I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out at the golf course as the first snow flitted down and disappeared as it met with the abnormally green grass on the seventh hole. Thanksgiving had just come and gone, I was coming up on my thirtieth birthday—the day of infamy in my family, the day I swore as a 6 year old I would never see.

“Look at that, Vinnie,” I said, “it’s snowiness.” I heard Vinnie’s super sonic purring start from the body pillow he had made his perch for the evening. It dawned on me as I said it, Vinnie might not have remembered snow since this was only his second winter coming on. The other cats were excited by the cooler weather, and I knew it was only a matter of time before Calvin was nudging to be let outside where he liked to catch snowflakes by chomping down on them with excessive feline force. But for now, he was asleep and oblivious to the first falling.

I looked over at Vinnie who was staring at me with his big, round eyes. He was a big kitty, no question, but somehow, no matter how big his 28 pound self was, his eyes always seemed bigger than his entire body. He was a melange of colors and patters—a true mutt of a cat, but he was beautiful in a quirky way. It was still amazing to me that when I found him near death at a local car wash, he fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. So little, he was, it was three weeks before I knew my “Minnie” was actually a “Vinnie.”

“Do you know about snowiness?” I asked him as his eyes and his purr seemed to get bigger. “You remember snowiness,” I said, looking back out the window for a moment, “it’s cold and wet and freezie-brrr?”

Vinnie just kept staring at me; his eyes getting bigger and bigger every time I spoke, and his purring incessantly loud.

“And then,” I said, “pretty soon it will me Creeeestmas.” I kept altering the intonation and pitch, certain that Vinnie really had no idea what I was saying, but reacting with his purring sounds and facial expressions simply from my tone and the sound of the words.

“And you know about Creeeestmas, don’t you?” I continued, amusing myself. “Oh yes, kitties know about Creeestmas—kitties love Creeestmas! With Santy Claus…” And on “Santy Claus” Vinnie stopped purring and his eyes doubled in size and he tilted his head at me like a dog might. I contained my laughter, but I knew I was on to something.

“Oh yeeeesssssss, Vinnie Kitty, Santy Claus. You know about Santy Claus and how he comes on Creeestmas, right through the chim-a-ny. Oh yes, Santy Claus will come with his reindeer. Oh yes, and they will come in and eat your cookies and all the carrots. Oh yes, Vinnie Kitty, Santy Claus will. He will come… Santy Clause and his thieving, burglaring ways. Everybody knows it.”

It was like I was channeling some bastardized version of Cheech and Chong and turned it into crazy cat lady amusement. After nearly 20 minutes of making up the ways in which Santy Claus committed numerous felonious acts in the span of one night, I thought I had better stop—Vinnie looked like his eyes were going to burst and I was fairly certain he was a little scared. Of course, in all reality, Vinnie spent much of his cathood in fear of something, whether it be Santy Claus, or later the Eeester Bunny, the Flying ‘Msghetti Monsser, zombies, gobble gobbles or the ceiling fan, he spent more time sitting under the bed than he ever did anywhere else.

But, despite his fear, Vinnie loved to be told stories. Over time, he would hop up on the chair next to me and only when I started talking to him, telling him his “stories” in the same voice as the first time, did he start to purr. Much later, I noticed he was smiling—much like my beloved fictional Cheshire. And so I told him about Alice in Wonderland—with the heroic, brave and wise kitty that looked like him and a dumb little girl and yes, even an evil bunny. He seemed to enjoy the story, but nothing made Vinnie purr as loudly or get as excited as our seasonal tales.

“You know about the Eeester Bunny, Vinnie?” I started out just weeks before Easter was coming on. “Oh yes, the Eeester Bunny! Vinnie Kitty knows stuff, he knows about the Eeester Bunny and how he leaves eggies all over the place. Hides them in the grass! Vinnie Kitty knows.” I said nodding, my voice solemn.

When I was solemn, Vinnie would give me a solemn look in return, that nod that acknowledged that yes, he knew about the evil bunnies and their eggies and their beans. He knew about the chickies and duckies, and the weight of the world was obviously on his tail.

It occurred to me that as I was telling a friend recently about Vinnie being my sounding board for some of my writing (if only because I live with cats and he pretends to listen and give the impression that he’s nodding – though I recognize that it could also be, and most likely so, him nodding off for a snooze) that some of the stories I tell him needed to be written in some fashion or another. It is a trecherous path to venture—a border line between an unseemly diagnosis and an entertaining anecdote about a writers process; but I was sitting on an airplace with little to do having already drafted an outline for a research paper, read three magazines and a novel. Besides, Halloweenie was just right around the corner…

“Kitties know about Halloweenie,” I started off in the usual fashion. We’d been down the Halloween storyline many a time before and it seemed to be a favorite along with Christmas.

“Oh yes, kitties know,” I had my solemn voice before I paused and switched to a matter-of-fact manner, “We have ghosts and gobbilins—and those are okay, kitties are used to them. Then there are the ghoulies and the vampers—they can be scary, but not to a kitty.” And then, in something of a cross between the matter-of-factness and cautionary tone: “And then there are the zombies. And everybody knows, zombies are a problem.”

Yes, long before zombies were in fashion, Vinnie and I knew they were a problem… and we assumed everyone else knew it too. How wrong we were—or not.

But, it is a long stretch between Easter and Halloween. We found places to fill it by celebrating Vinnie’s Yankee Doodle birthday, but mostly, we talk about the Flying Msghetti Monsser, or as the internet world knows it—the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I imagine Vinnie, if cats could talk, would struggle with the word Spaghetti, much like a child would. And yes, Vinnie it seems would have something of a lisp going on from time to time.

The Flying Msghetti Monsser, though, seems to be the catch all. Having a very symbiotic relationship with kitties, the Flying Msghetti also likes to get kitties in trouble. Why else would I come home to find chairs overturned, things once on the desk or table underneath the sofa or a plant dug up and eaten? It only makes sense that the Flying Msghetti was there while I was gone. After all, “it’s the only reasonable explanation!”

Somewhere along the line, after moving to a new apartment, Vinnie developed an acute fear of the ceiling fan. It was so bad for a while, even turning the light on and off using the chain switch would cause Vinnie to run and hide until the next day. After a while, his fear, while never really gone, subsided as we made up stories about the ceiling fan and that it was via the ceiling fan that the Flying Msghetti got into the apartment.

And though Vinnie seems to enjoy being a rapt audience for some of my nonsensical thoughts, and while initially it was my amusement with his behaviour as I told these tales, it turned out to be an amazing exercise for me as a writer. It has often now doubled as amusement and a prelude to my own writing. It triggers a creative process and diverts my thinking—like a mouthful of lemon sorbet between courses, it’s a useful palette cleansing tool freeing my imagination to go where it must. It might not be thought as a terribly difficult exercise, but really, if you can keep a cats attention, any other audience should be a breeze. Cats and dogs – our pets – don’t judge us; they are not going to critique how many times I say, “Oh yes, Vinnie Kitty,” or “everybody knows it.” And in that regard, when I sit down I’m relaxed, I don’t think about anything other than how the words sound and the physical act of not only writing them, but speaking them.

Every writer has their own process, tips and tricks they use to clear the mind, get into focus and engage in the physical and very mental act of putting ideas and stories to a page. I found an unlikely muse in just entertaining myself… and perhaps a feline companion, too.

Hanging out in the backyard

The last few days, I've been playing in my backyard, so to speak. Thursday, with a visiting friend, the sunny but cool day was spent meandering on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. The nice thing about Atlantic City this time of year is that it isn't crowded. You can easily cross the Boardwalk to a shop or a seat or the beach without being run over by tourists oblivious to anyone else on the strip, pedicabs or strollers. There are still a few idiots who insist on feeding the pigeons, but they are fewer in numbers this time of year. And, really, there is something about the ocean air in the autumn season that is energizing. Of course, the effects of the salty air are unchanged no matter the season, and my hair, though clubbed on either side of my head still produced a chia-like pouffiness which I am sure was the envy of the Shore on Thursday afternoon!


Friday morning, with a trip to see the Marcel Duchamp Étant donnés exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art checked off the list (which I sadly did not get any photos of, probably because it was über disturbing). Much time was spent browsing some of the various other collections within the PMA, and visiting some of my all time favorite works housed therein. Heading across the street to the Perelman building we were able to take in a Diet Pepsi and a few other fabulous exhibits. (Left: View of City Hall from top of the Museum steps.)

At the Perelman was a nice collection of Henri Matisse work, along with other artists representing modern art from the French Riveria. There was also an excellent display of photos, prints and drawings in a Skyscraper series. Pictures were not allowed but I did manage a couple.

Also at the Perelman were two fashion exhibits, the pictures below are from the French fashion (Shopping in Paris, 1850-1925). There was also an exhibit of modern designers honoring Tom Marotta, a local Philadelphian who died of cancer a few years ago (and a Saks VP).



The Friday adventure took several turns through the various parks and squares of the city, through Reading Terminal Market (which is still a favorite of mine two years later) and Penn's Landing after a successful hat purchase in Old City. Had I been traveling on my own, I could have continued playing in the City with a romp through Rittenhouse Square and an indulgence in even more art--since this last Friday was "First Friday" in the city. But as we headed and I took one last look from Penn's Landing back at the City that has become my home, I could not resist capturing one last photo on the day. And I think it says it all.